


singing oh-oh-oh; go on, i dare you

by kattyshack



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Feelings Porn, Humor, Itty bitty angst, Jealousy, Jon Snow Has No Chill, Meddling, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, but then wha-BAM jon gets a lil some-somethin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-19
Updated: 2018-01-19
Packaged: 2019-03-06 14:35:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13413342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Jon is spending the group night out pining for Sansa, and their friends give him shit until he finally -does something- about it.(title from “i dare you,” by the xx)





	singing oh-oh-oh; go on, i dare you

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: this will probably make zero sense to anyone who doesn’t follow me on tumblr, but my newfound thirst for joe keery has apparently manifested in A L O T of new jonsa smut, so... here we are again 
> 
> (but like? this turned out way more romantic than sexual, anyway, i’m almost disappointed in myself HOWEVER i really like the title so i’m not chucking it and we’ll all just have to come to terms with that)

“I’m not jealous.”

Arya tuts, immediately and utterly disgusted, as she slides onto the bar stool next to him. “I haven’t even said one fucking word to you.”

Jon shoots her a glare, then takes a fortifying pull of some craft beer Arya’s never heard of. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“That you’re a broody bitch?” Arya kicks his stool, but Jon remains stoic as ever, forearms braced on the bar and signature scowl intact. “Jesus, mate, if you’ve got such a problem with Sansa’s universal sex appeal, why don’t you go snatch her up for yourself?”

Jon snorts but otherwise doesn’t respond to Arya’s suggestion any which way. It’s a ridiculous suggestion, for starters, as Jon is quite sure that the likes of Sansa Stark — social butterfly and all-around good girl who steals the heart of everyone she meets, so long as they’ve got a heart to steal — couldn’t possibly be “snatched up.” Tonight’s jaunt to the pub is only Exhibit A in a long line of evidence to attest to that fact. Their group had been at the Pyke for approximately two hours, and already Jon has been forced to watch half a dozen blokes put the moves on Sansa, with no reprieve in sight.

He sighs and takes another pull of his beer. It’s going to be a long fucking night — longer still if Arya insists on giving him shit for the rest of it. And of course she _will_ insist; it is Arya, after all. The girl is nothing if not relentless, especially when it concerns A) taking the piss, and B) playing matchmaker for her beloved (and oblivious) elder sister.

“This is so fuckin’ stupid,” Arya tells him, as if Jon isn’t already well aware of how pathetic he is. “You know that, right? That you’re a fuckin’ idiot?”

“No, I didn’t. Keep telling me,” he invites dryly, “that’s great.”

Arya rolls her eyes and orders another Guinness from Yara, who’s tending bar tonight. They strike up an amicable debate about their rival rugby teams, and Jon is offered a momentary respite from his surrogate sister’s badgering. He supposes he should use the time responsibly — perhaps by switching seats to avoid her — but instead he goes back to what he was doing before Arya decided to challenge his masculinity: staring wistfully at Sansa, and hating himself for being such a useless idiot over her.

But, _gods_ , is she pretty. Jon rests his chin in his hand, gaze glued to Sansa at the other end of the bar with Loras Tyrell, who had informed Jon earlier that _he_ was to thank for Sansa’s outfit this evening, thank you very much. 

“I accept thanks in the form of fruit baskets and gift certificates to various spas,” Loras had told him with a hearty wink. Jon had laughed it off, but in actuality he’s seriously considering thanking Loras as such.

Of course, Sansa would look good in just about anything — _absolutely_ anything. But Jon finds that he’s a sucker for her in a short skirt, tall boots, off-the-shoulder sweater, and her hair twisted in a mussed fishtail braid. Her eyes are smokey, cheekbones outlined with some kind of shimmery powder, and her mouth glossed a delicious pink that he’d lick from her lips as though it were candy, if she’d let him.

(Okay, so maybe Jon’s a sucker for Sansa in anything, but the booze is making him a bit more imaginative than he allows his sober mind to be.)

Just as he’s thinking of all the places he’d like to lick her, Sansa catches his eye. It must be obvious that he’d been staring like a creep, because she blushes a pink even more tantalizing than the shade that’s painted on her lips, and she waves to lessen the tension hanging between them. Or the tension Jon imagines, anyway; he’s always tense around her, like a tightly-wound spring ready to be _sprung_ already.

It only gets worse as the night wears on, and Sansa’s would-be paramours follow suit. Jon wants to hit something — some _one_ — but at the moment that someone is one who Jon shouldn’t even be thinking about hitting, and not just because he’s got about a head on Jon in height, either.

“You look like you’re about halfway to an aneurysm,” Arya remarks. She’s pleasantly buzzed, which means she’s even more likely to tear him a new one than usual. “What’s your problem this time? Is it Sam’s brother?”

Sam, who’d been sitting at the bar next to where Jon’s taken to leaning against it, perks up. “What about my brother?”

“He’s trying to chat up Sansa,” Arya supplies, ignoring the dozenth scowl Jon’s shot her that evening.

“Ahem,” Sam bristles, and pokes his mate in the shoulder. “Dickon is a perfectly nice young man.”

“Yeah,” Arya pipes up before Jon can defend himself, “but he’s gone and triggered Jon’s _very manly_ need to piss on Sansa’s leg to mark his territory.”

 _Jesus…_ Jon drains half his beer in one go; he’s going to need it. “I’m not _pissing on her leg_.”

“I don’t know what your kinks are,” Arya scoffs into her Guinness. “And quite frankly I don’t want to.”

“Dickon would never piss on anyone’s leg,” Sam says, voice somber but eyes twinkling in mirth.

“Neither would I!” Jon huffs, irritated with the lot of them and this damnable knot between his shoulders, which he’s sure would be relieved if he could only hoist Sansa over his shoulder and take her to some dark corner and and and — _best not to think on it if you’re not going to nut up and do it, mate_. “That’s not — I’m not — damn it, Arya.”

“Hey —” Arya shrugs, as if she couldn’t give a damn about this conversation, if only she hadn’t been the cause of it all “— you’re the one who’s all bent out of shape because the guy’s talking to her. What are you worried about, anyway? Look at his boring, square face. Why does he look as though he’s perpetually confused?”

“Play nice,” Margaery, who had just sidled up to the bar at this very inopportune moment to flirt with Yara, chides. She clicks her tongue and eyes Dickon appreciatively. “I’d climb that boy like a tree.”

“Um —” Theon, who’s tending bar with his sister, snaps his fingers in Margaery’s face “— hello?”

Margaery offers him an innocent, unassuming smile and replies sweetly, “Hello, Theon.”

Theon snorts, offended. “You can’t sleep with my sister and then ogle some strange man right in front of me!”

“Yara would let me hit that if I wanted.” Margaery winks at her girlfriend. “Wouldn’t you, love?”

Yara shrugs one shoulder, even more unaffected than Arya had been with the same gesture. “As long as you let me watch.”

“See?” Margaery grins smugly, then goes back to her ogling. “ _Mmm._ You can practically see his pecs through that shirt, can’t you? Got a good look at his hips when he stretched earlier, his shirt rode up a bit.” She smacks her lips together. “Yum.”

“I’ve got hips too,” Jon grumbles. His eyes stay on Sansa as he takes another bracing swig of beer and imagines his mouth is somewhere more appealing. Like between her legs, for example, or maybe leaving a trail of hickeys down her neck so everyone else backs the fuck off.  _Yum, indeed…_  “Who cares?”

“Oh, is this why we’re talking about that delectable piece of man-candy?” Margaery wants to know, her interest piqued now that there’s some delicious reason for the tension ripe in the air. “Jon’s gone all caveman again?”

The shit thing is — the _real shit thing_ — is that, if Jon’s being honest with himself, a guy like Dickon would actually be really, really good for Sansa. He’d treat her right, make her happy… And that shouldn’t make Jon hate him but, _god_ , it _does_.

It’s not that Jon wouldn’t be good to her. Of course that isn’t it. He hasn’t even got her and he damn near worships the ground she walks on. But just because _he_ wants her, that doesn’t mean he should get her. Sansa should get what she wants — Jon’s too close not to know all her dirty little secrets, all the ways she’s been misused in the past; and he knows that, for _once_ , Sansa should get what she wants. Even if what she wants isn’t him.

God. Fuck. Jon finishes off his beer because _fuck_ , that hurts to think about.

He has this raw, aching need to claim her as his. But she’s _not_ , Jon has to remind himself, she’s not his, and it’s not fair for his hands to itch to punch something whenever he’s forced to remember that.

Sansa catches his eye from across the room, the way she’s been doing all night. Her smile is soft and fleeting before she gives her attention back to Dickon, and Jon wants to hit him all over again.

She’s so pretty. So fucking pretty. Jon thinks it actually hurts, how pretty she is and the way she looks at him, like she wants him to know it was all for him —

But who says it is? It could be for anybody. Where’s it written, that she should want him the way that he wants her?

And damn it to hell, how much has he had to drink and when is this pounding in his head going to _stop_?

He’s being an idiot, he tells himself firmly. An overdramatic ponce. It’s not as though Dickon’s proposed marriage in the middle of the pub; they’re only talking, for fuck’s sake.

Jon tries to reason this out with himself, and is determined to prove his (completely feigned) level-headedness to their friends when he says, “I haven’t gone caveman. I don’t do that.”

“Please.” Arya rolls her eyes, and is accompanied by Margaery’s short, sharp laugh. “You’re Sansa’s personal Neanderthal. I don’t see you getting all worked up about _my_ love life.”

“You and Sansa are… different,” Jon decides. “I know you know how to handle yourself. And it’s not that Sansa doesn’t —” _she’s the most collected, put-together person I know_ “— but, I mean, you’re dating _Gendry_ , I haven’t got to worry about him treating you right. It’s _Gendry_ , right, it’s what he does. And you’re Robb’s sister. You’re like _my_ sister. And Sansa —”

“Has the same relation to Robb as I do,” Arya points out, shaking her head. “It’s fine for you to go all caveman for Sansa, alright? I just think you should admit it to yourself, and then maybe you’ll shuck this whole ‘oh, no, I don’t really feel that way about Sansa’ _bullshit_ — because, by the way, my sister deserves better than someone who can’t even admit his feelings for her because, what, he’s too scared?”

Arya shakes her head again, more annoyed than endearing now. She’s losing her patience with him, and fast. “You’re my best mate, Jon, but even I don’t know what’s going on in your head when you look at her and you don’t just go for it already.”

Jon shifts from one foot to the other, uncomfortable beneath the glare of Arya’s accusation. He _is_ scared, and ultimately that’s all that’s stopping him. But…

His eyes find Sansa again. She’s laughing at something Loras and Renly are saying, standing under the beacon of a neon beer sign, her muted colors and soft curves illuminated by garish pink-and-blue lights, and he wants her so bad he’s sure he’s developing an ulcer over it.

“Look, I’ll prove it to you,” Arya’s voice cuts through the aching fog of his thoughts. “That you’re being an idiot, I mean, and how you’ve got it bad for Sansa and you’d best do something about it.”

“Arya,” Jon sighs, “I —”

“Oi, Gendry —” Arya ignores him, and instead elbows her boyfriend in the ribs, then jerks her chin in Jon’s direction. “Tell Jon about the time I licked whipped cream off your abs.”

Gendry’s eyes are glossy from too much to drink, but his grin is devilish and immediate. “ _Which_ time?”

“See?” Arya says when Jon has nothing to say to that. “You’re totally cool with it. No reaction. Now imagine if I told you Sansa licked whipped cream off, say, Theon’s abs —”

Something in Jon snaps; he’d like to say it’s because of the alcohol that he yelps _“WHAT?”_ but he knows better than to blame his natural, visceral reaction on too many spirits.

“Ha!” Arya points a triumphant finger at him. “Of course she didn’t do that. Completely hypothetical, and still you lose your head. Oh my god. You love her.”

 _I do_ , Jon thinks, and nearly whimpers the words out from between his lips. He must look a panicked mess, because Arya takes a smidgen of pity on him. She places a hand on his arm, nodding sagely as if he’s just offered her the secrets to the universe that, somehow, she’d known all along.

“Chill. She’d probably lick spray cheese off your abs, and you know how she feels about spray cheese.”

“She says it’s an abomination,” Gendry supplies helpfully.

Jon flinches. “How d’you know that?”

“Oh my god! Are you serious?” Arya practically screams with unabashed glee. “Gendry happens to know that Sansa doesn’t like spray cheese and — look at that, there goes that tic in your jaw again!” Her laughter is a loud _whoop!_ that slices the thick, smoky pub air in two. “Hilarious. Unbelievable.”

“Does this mean I’m not allowed to talk to Sansa anymore?” Gendry asks, only a tad confused, and Arya snorts.

“Not if Jon’s got anything to say about it, apparently.”

Tired of this game and riding high on Guinness, Arya grabs Jon by the shirtfront and — with a strength that’s surprising to only those who don’t know her — drags him bodily across the pub to where Sansa is, still laughing, perched on a stool and looking like she’s ready for Jon to fall to his knees and just go straight to town on her.

(Or perhaps it’s only Jon who’s ready for such a thing, but he likes to think he could convince Sansa of it quickly enough.)

Arya shoves Jon towards her sister so forcefully that Sansa does, in fact, have to spread her legs to accommodate him if she wants to avoid bruised knees, and survival instinct indicates that she would indeed like to avoid such injury. So Jon finds himself quite suddenly nestled between her thighs, hands on her hips to steady himself and her eyes on his, rendering him unsteady all over again.

“Hi,” Sansa says, the greeting breathy and a little uncertain, but the corners of her lips twitch upwards when Jon’s hands flex on her hips.

“Hey,” he says back, and it’s like he hasn’t had a decent drink in weeks, his voice is so hoarse and mouth so suddenly _dry_ as he inhales her perfume. It’s richer than the citrus scents she usually prefers — he shouldn’t know that, _why do I know that?_ — and the heady tang of it makes Jon really, really want to fuck her.

Not necessarily more than usual, but more urgently, certainly; he’s half a mind to fuck her right here on this stool and have done with it.

But before he can make good (or bad, depending on your point of view) on that urge, Arya tells her sister, “Jon wants you to eat stuff off him.”

Sansa blinks, laughs a little, her eyes still on Jon’s (now closed as he counts to ten for patience), “What?”

And, all at once — perhaps driven by a survival instinct of his own — Jon’s eyes snap open and he blurts out, before Arya can continue to ruin his life tonight, “D’you wanna dance?”

The music is loud, the pub dark and the floor crowded, Sansa loves to dance and Jon can’t imagine taking his hands off her now.

So maybe he’s not precisely what she wants, for all he knows, but he can give her something she _does_ want, no question — he can give her a dance.

No matter what Arya says to the contrary, and of course she does: “You’ll break her toes, you great oaf.”

“Shut it, Arya,” Jon and Sansa say in unison, and are too busy grinning at each other to notice Arya’s smirk.

“Yeah, Jon —” these words are only for him, and so’s Sansa’s smile as she takes him by the wrists, removing his hands from her hips only to slip her fingers through his “— I’ll dance with you.”

Jon swallows his nerves, but all the same he’s sure he’s liable to fucking collapse. Sansa’s hands are in his, leading him out to the floor… Her hips are swaying every-so-slightly and all-the-more-enticingly in front of him… The door opens, and the incoming breeze catches on her hair, wafting her perfume back towards him…

And then they’re in the crush of the crowd, and Jon’s hands slide back to her hips while hers slide up to his shoulders.

Her body is flush against his, and Jon wonders — wildly, unbidden — how he might cage her inside himself, so he won’t ever have to be without her.

Sansa leads — she’s the one who loves dancing, the one who knows how to move, and Jon only knows how to move _with her_ — and Jon follows her steps, hips molding into hers whenever she gives him the chance.

“You having fun?” she asks, not so loudly but she’s close enough for Jon to hear her over the thumping of the music.

_I am now._

“It’s alright.” Jon grins, and sweeps his hands across her lower back, nudging her nearer. “Looked like you were having a busy night.”

Sansa doesn't pretend to be ignorant of what he’s talking about. She’s no stranger to male attention; it would be stupid and fruitless to act otherwise. “Noticed that, did you?”

“Hard not to.” Jon tries not to, but he’s sure a note of bitterness creeps into his reply; he only hopes that the music’s too loud for Sansa to have caught it.

“And yet you didn’t come to my rescue?” Sansa’s teasing breath tickles the scruff on his cheek. Instinctively, his hold on her waist tightens even as she rotates her hips so sinfully against him; his grip digs into her and he guides her movements. “I always took you for the knight-in-shining-armour sort but here this damsel remains, distressed as ever.”

“Should I —” Jon tries to swallow his nerves again, tries to ask her if he should have done something to discourage all those barflys from chatting her up. But he already knows he should have; he’d sure enough _wanted_ to. “Shit, I should have, shouldn’t I’ve?”

There goes that twitch of her lips again. “Say that five times fast.”

“Cheeky.” Jon pinches her waist, just beneath the band of her bra, and no amount of pounding bass could make him unhear her sharp intake of breath at the contact. Not that it does much to soothe his anxiety over whether or not she wants him, so he soldiers on: “So, um… No one you fancy, then?”

“Oh, god… I don’t know, Jon. They’re all alright.” Sansa breaks off on a shaky sort of chuckle. She looks away from him for a moment, then returns her gaze purposefully, as though she’s finally come to a long-awaited decision, and her hand twists in the curls at the nape of his neck. “Why, have you got someone else in mind for me?”

_Well… me._

Can he say that? Jon’s not sure if he’s drunk enough to say that; and if he’s not drunk enough, that means he’s still scared shitless. So instead of taking Arya’s words to heart, he shrugs and mutters, “Depends what you’re into, I s’pose.”

“Jon…” Sansa sighs, and his name is not so much a word as it is a feeling, a vibration from her body to his, an exhale of her amaretto breath into his own ale-soaked mouth. It makes his heart skip, his cock twitch, and it makes him hold her closer so she might feel it all.

Her fingers tug at his curls and she whispers into the half-a-breath’s space between them, “Don’t be stupid. It doesn’t suit you.”

Somewhere in the deep recesses of his logical mind, Jon knows he should wonder what she means by that. And maybe it’s the alcohol, or the music, or the way she’s pressed against his chest, but all of a sudden Jon’s not _wondering_ anymore.

Maybe it’s the way she takes his hands and moves them — one to her chest, and the other to her arse, all the while looking at him as if she’s challenging and begging him in this one movement, this one chance — and now Jon doesn’t second-guess who she’d dressed for tonight, or who she’s always seeking out in a crowded room, or who it is she wants.

 _Go on_ , she tells him. _You can touch me if you want to_.

As if he’s ever wanted anything else.

Sansa’s hand pushes its way under his shirt to touch his searing-hot skin, and now Jon _knows_ he’s the one she’s been thinking of, the way he’s been thinking of her.

“Sansa, I —” What is he meant to say? He could tell her he wants her, he could prostrate himself before her, he could give her the world if she wanted it. But he looks at her, and she’s touching him, and he doesn’t care about making the right move anymore; he just wants to make _a_ move, any of them.

So his gaze drops to those candy-coated lips and he mutters, “Fuck it. You know what? Just. Fuck it.”

_“Mmmmmm —”_

Sansa’s moan is surprised but instananeous when Jon’s mouth covers hers, takes hers, coaxes her lips apart to slip his tongue between them. Just as when she’d sighed his name, it’s not so much a sound as it is a feeling — one that Jon swallows greedily, so that it settles in the pits of his stomach and drives the ache to take take _take_ her.

The pub’s packed — Jon’s not quite sure when the Pyke got so crowded, he’s been too deep into his bottles and preoccupied with Sansa all night to notice — but he’s glad of it. No one gives a shite what anyone else is doing when there are so many people doing dirty on the dance floor and in the corners and the loos. Nobody’s paying them any mind at all, so Jon can do whatever he likes to Sansa, so long as she likes it, too.

Using the hand on her arse as leverage, Jon yanks her against him and shoves one of his legs between hers in one, would-be fluid motion had it not been for his rather fumbling eagerness. Sansa doesn’t seem put-off, though, so like he cares that he’s ready to hump her like a dog in heat; she’s prepared to follow suit, as she undulates against his thigh.

“I didn’t think you wanted me,” Sansa pants into his ear as he sucks her own between his teeth. He juts his erection against her to the slow, sensual beat of the song. “I’ve been trying to catch your eye all night, I thought —”

“You thought wrong,” Jon rasps, then moans softly when she grazes her perfectly rounded fingernails down his chest. _How could I not want you?_ “I was an idiot, love, forgive me and I’ll make it worth your while…”

He could be good to her, and he’s what she wants. 

She shudders a _yes_ against his neck, so Jon drags his hands down her sides, pulling her closer to him. A tremor runs down his spine when her cold fingers trace down his neck, but he _revels_ in the chill and the heat that blossoms in his gut because of it.

He rocks against her harder, with more purpose and finesse, and Sansa sucks a mark just under the line of his jaw. He can feel her moan against his skin, can feel it settle inside his bones. He thrusts, and she follows the motion like she was always meant to do this with him. 

“I do wanna touch you, sweetheart,” Jon murmurs, breath hot against her cheek. His hands brush the button on her skirt, fingers teasing the warm patch of skin beneath her navel. “ _Sansa…_ you want me to?”

Her mouth finds his — quickly, feverishly — and she pushes one of his hands up her skirt, where she’s wearing nothing else. Jon sucks in a breath, and releases it in a rush of _fuck me, honey, why have I wasted so long without you?_

“Yes,” she says, low and hot and dreamy, and her tongue traces his bottom lip so lightly it makes him half-mad for her. “Touch me like you want to, Jon.”

So he does.

Slowly, tortuously, he touches her like he’s wanted to for god-only-knows-how-long. She’s warm and wet and sweet, moving with his touch, chasing his fingers to the beat of the music under their feet. His free hand pushes the hair from her face, twists into the ends of her braid, and he places long, languid kisses along her cheekbone to her temple, and he whispers in her ear —

 _Does that feel good?_ His fingers twitch, stroke, pump. 

 _Is this what you like?_ His thumb circles her clit, slow and sure, and his mouth trails down her cheek back to her lips. 

 _You’re so hot for me, sweetheart, I want you so much…_ His mouth moves against hers like waves upon the shore, and his breath crashes into hers like a thunderstorm. 

He curls his fingers inside her, and she moans so prettily against the curve of his neck that his pulse nearly leaps from his throat to get to her.

“I’m gonna fall in love with you, Jon Snow,” Sansa murmurs, fingertips brushing the hollow of his throat and making his pulse skip anew.

_I’ve been in love with you all night —_

The lights pulse and the music swells, and his breath catches on hers when she laughs.

_— and then some._

One of her hands twists back into his hair, the other into the material of his shirt, damp with his own sweat, and she tells him through harried, desperate, hungry kisses, “You’re so good to me, honey, Jon, take me home.”

Jon can hardly hear her over the music, but Sansa’s whispers find their way into his skin, and he’ll give her anything — _everything_ — she asks of him.

He’d waited this long, hadn’t he? Too long. Now that she wants him and he knows it, he’s not going to wait any longer.

His hands slip back ‘round her waist and he presses his lips to her forehead, nuzzling into her warmth, into her amaretto breath and that spicy perfume she’d spritzed in her hair, and he smiles when she plucks another kiss from his lips.

Her fingers intertwine with his, just as they had when she’d led him out to the floor, out of his head, and into her arms. 

“Let’s get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

Arya’s watch _beep-beep-beep_ s just as the group catches Jon and Sansa, hand-in-hand, slipping out the Pyke’s side door.

“A- _ha_!” Arya pumps her fist triumphantly in the air. “That’s midnight, folks, and I win the pool. Who’s paying my tab, ya fuckin’ plebeians?”

“I still say I won it fifteen minutes ago,” Margaery contests good-naturedly. “He practically impregnated her on the dance floor.”

“ _Aaah_ , gross,” Arya says emphatically, and shoots Margaery a couple of finger guns. “Just for that, you’re picking up my tab, Tyrell. Plus, you’re loaded. What are you gonna do with all that dough, anyway? Scrooge McDuck it?”

Margaery lifts her cosmo, cocks her head, and smirks. “Cheers.”

“Ya did good, kid,” Theon says to Arya, saluting her with Margaery’s proffered credit card before he swipes it. “Robb’s gonna go fuckin’ ballistic.”

Arya maintains that that’s just what he gets for picking up the weekend shift instead of painting the town red with the rest of them, and besides —

“Robb’s the one who said Jon was halfway to a heart attack over Sansa in the first place.” Arya clinks her shot glass against Yara’s, and throws back the whiskey like she was born for it. “He’ll be right chuffed, so long as we don’t tell him about the dirty dancing.”

Theon chortles and swipes their empty glasses. “You _are_ gonna tell him, though, right?”

“Well, obviously.” Arya winks at him. “I mean, somebody’s gotta give Jon a swift kick to the arse for taking so long. _‘I’m not jealous…’_ ”

She rolls her eyes, sighs, and smiles, satisfied that her work is well and truly done with Jon and Sansa’s hasty, all-smiles exit from the pub.

_“Honestly.”_


End file.
